Chapter 3: At the Gates of Pentos
Ghoyan Drohe wasn't what I expected.
Yandry and Ysilla told me much of the old Rhoynish cities, or how they were supposed to have looked back in the day. While Ghoyan Drohe had never been a big player in the various rivalries between the Rhoynar, it was said to be very beautiful and prosperous before it's destruction. A city of canals and fountains, green and flowering. A most charming place where dancers would dance and singers would sing. Rising high would be massive domed buildings of colourful stone and polished bronze. Where those ancient princes would parade around on the shells of their massive turtles and the air would be thick and lively with spice. I wanted to go back before the Valyrian conquests and before the events of the books. I wanted to see these ancient civilisations in George's world: the Rhoynar, the Valyrians, even the Ghiscari at the time of their empire. It would have been interesting.
What appeared before me was a mess of ruins, not unlike the forgotten cities in the Americas that became lost to the jungle. The forests that had once been captivated had returned when the people left thanks to the Valyrian conquest of the Rhoyne. The histories claimed that when Prince Garin the Great failed in the Second Spice War, the Valyrian Legions marched north, sacking each city and taking half the population – sometimes more – back to Valyria. This reduction of the population didn't do well and those they enslaved were the young and healthy, the scribes, the craftsmen and the learned, the people who kept the city alive. Now, thousands of years later, the canals were choked full of reed and mud from where they had once been flowing. The pools and public baths was now stagnant water belonging to turtles and swarms of flies. The buildings left standing were little more than empty shells, while massive structures slowly sank into the mud. The rubble was now home to wildlife and invasive plants, while columns and towers that had once stood erect were now lopsided if they hadn't collapsed.
Despite all that, there were many who called this place home. They lived in little shacks built on the side of the river, among gnarled willows and tiny, carefully tended gardens. Amongst the ruined buildings were markets for traders and storage for the goods going up and down the Rhoyne. Clustered amongst them were lodges and taverns and brothels. It was a small town, mostly hidden amidst the ruins of an ancient city. Most of the people, Ysilla claimed, were the blood for the former inhabitants who looked to the future and the rebirth of their principalities.
While she spoke with hope, I couldn't see any when we docked. While the traders looked to be well-to-do like many of those living in the towns we stopped along the Rhoyne, the natives were anything but. They looked gaunt with large sunken-in-eyes and hollowed cheeks. Their frames were thin and bony and they busily worked, carrying crates in from the carriages to the waiting riverboats. Trade is the lifeblood of Essos.
Since arriving, we didn't really leave the Shy Maid all that much. The exiled lord Connington explained that we needed to wait for Magister Illyrio to bring forth transportation to take us to Pentos. I personally saw no point when we could simply ride, but I wasn't complaining. The ruins of Ghoyan Drohe were really something and when given the opportunity, I would eagerly take my leave and explore. Under adult supervision of course. Old Griff didn't really want me to leave the boat, but Septa Lemore vouched for me, saying I was a growing boy and that should be allowed to stretch my legs. So it was usually her or Rolly chaperoning me around everywhere.
Like today.
I, for one, was excited. I sprang off the Shy Maid and turned to where Rolly walked in a training doublet and two sparring swords. We were going training within the ruins. I had begged Griff numerous times to allow me to, so I could study the ruins close up and see what secrets they held within. In many ways I was too curious for my own good, but before me was an entire world to explore and should I be forced to remain on the boat in the overprotective care of Joncon, I would start to tear my hair out. I liked the man, I truly did, but god he could be get annoying.
"Ready for a few more bruises?" the ginger-haired man asked, jostling his shoulder wherever the sack began to slide off.
"Soon enough I wouldn't be anything but a bruise," was my dry reply. Rolly laughed and playfully punched my arm. I grinned, feeling sweat already begin to bead on my forehead. It was a hot day and swarming with flies. It was made all the hotter with my sparring gear: a stained padded aketon and the cervelliere that covered my head didn't leave my body much to breathe. My high-heeled riding boots would soon be filled with sweat and my padded trousers will be sticky and itching. I feared what wearing proper plate would be like in this weather and I was lucky enough that Jon informed me it wouldn't be needed. He kept mail in the hold, either for practise or in the chance of a pirate attack.
We headed inward, away from the river and toward the massive domed building with walls leaning sideways. The various turrets reminded me of the Leaning Tower of Pisa, though the ones before me had half collapsed and served as the residence to hundreds of seagulls. The walls were collapsed and slick with damp moss. The air was hot and moist, but the shade was well worth it. Clambering over a collapsed pillar, we made our way into what would have once been an audience chamber. It was a circular space with a massive dome sprinkled with holes that let in cones of light, revealing thousands of little dust moats swirling in the air. From the various faint colours, it was clear the dome had once been painted when there was still life.
"Beautiful." I had always found an interest in architecture and the ancient kind especially. It was just interesting to imagine what such monuments looked like when they were in their prime. Glancing around and recalling what Ysilla told me, it seemed that this was once a temple. A holy building for the Mother Rhoyne and the Old Men of the River. The turtles that resided in the pools were considered holy and somewhere there would have once been a chamber that held the eggs of the Old Men. If one killed a hatchling, it would be treated as deicide and therefore be worthy of execution. Not just any execution mind you. Oh no. The Rhoynar were like the ancient Persians in that those who killed their precious turtles were in turn killed by scaphism. No one would be suffering that anymore, I saw. There wasn't any turtles, only rubble and dirt and weeds that poked up from the cracks in the mosaic floor.
"I can't believe you've picked this place," Rolly grumbled, glancing around, making sure there were no crocodiles that were said to inhabit the place. I rolled by eyes as he looked for dangers. While I'd been told of various predators who called Ghoyan Drohe home, including but not limited to river wolves, wild dogs, snapping turtles and many toxic snakes and lizards. Nothing else was considered much of a threat. At least this near 'civilisation.' I knew we were safe though. Most animals shied away from humans unless threatened.
"It looks nice," I said. In a strange way it did have a beauty, at least from a distance. "This way I'm away from Griff and the others. I need some space, you know." I did like my space and have moments alone. A shame that the Shy Maid didn't allow it.
"I get that feeling," Rolly threw the bag on the floor and I watched the equipment pool out with a loud clamber. I grimaced at the sound and looked up at him. "Griff's not much of a people person."
"Understatement of the century. Though, could we not practise at the moment? I would very much like to draw some of this. Can we practise after? I'll be too tired to do this otherwise and I want something to remember this place." A camera was out the question, but I could still draw it. I wasn't the best with charcoal, but seeing as that was the only materials I had at the moment, I was making it work.
With a sigh, Rolly reluctantly allowed it. Grinning childishly, I stripped out of the padded jacket so I was only in a thin tunic already sticking to my body. I had carried some of my drawing supplies with me. Pulling out a pile of parchments, I began sketching. The ginger-haired man, meanwhile, was watching me behind my back. It wasn't the first time he'd done that and not the only one. Septa Lemore regularly watched me as well. "You have a gift, you know," the septa said one day after going through a pile of his work. Then my response was, "Yea, if I ever fail at being a conqueror, at least I'll have my art to fall back on."
...
I wiped the sweat off my face as me and Rolly stared at each other. It had always been hot in the Rhoyne, but I was now smothering under layers of padding. If having dragon's blood giving me resistance to heat, it's not bloody working.
I was too distracted with my thoughts that I missed the sword slamming into my shoulder. I fell backwards, just barely avoiding a piece of rubble. I grunted and attempted to sit up. If I'd been just an inch off, I would have hit my head and I'd likely forget everything once more.
"Pay attention," Rolly warned me, relaxing his stance for a moment. His tone was serious. I had quickly found that when it came to training, Rolly didn't act nearly as carefree. He was a teacher and expected his student to learn. "Don't hesitate. Not for a moment."
"I'm aware," I grunted and stood up, brushing the dust from myself. I hated being dirty, though I'm afraid that was the life I now had. The days of easy showers and tap water were long over. I held my shield before me and rested my sword just above my shoulder. It was one of the stances I'd been taught. Jon Connington was very specific when it came to doing it properly. "So, teach me swordsmanship."
Rolly shook his head, a little smirk forming in the corner of his lips. "I won't teach you anything of the sort. Swordsmanship, you see, is a tame sport they teach noble children. It is a dance of sorts, with all matter of forms and rules for both sides. I wasn't taught that, for I'm not highborn. Therefore I won't teach what they're taught." He pointed his sword to me, where even a lazy swing could disarm him. "I'm not going to teach you swordsmanship, Young Griff. I'm going to teach you how to fight. How to kill. After what happened, you still haven't regained your abilities. A part of me is still hopeful, but after this long and with such a loss of skill, I doubt you'll get it back now. Not anytime soon anyway. I'm going teach you to fight, kill quickly and giving as few openings as possible."
"Good to know," I replied, not thinking about anything else to say. It seemed to me that everyone in the gang were pretty comfortable with melodrama of some form or another. "How skilled was I before, if I may ask?"
"Decent enough," he allowed. "You showed lots of potential and had it in you for something great. Let's hope you continue to show promise. There have been skilled warriors that learned to fight when they were older then you."
"But most started younger," I grumbled. "Thank you for the pressure." I glanced at my surroundings, forming a picture of the training ground in my mind before turning back to him. "Then teach me. Teach me how to kill."
Rolly nodded. "First things first. The most important thing about fighting is distance and footwork, as you should know. I know Old Griff and myself have taught you the basics. I see you have trouble with the range of your sword."
That must have been clear. I was shorter than Rolly who was both stronger and had greater reach. Being a child yet to experience the joys of puberty, I was still fairly short. My body was slender and yet to properly gain muscle. Weighing the sword in my hand, I felt comfortable with my weapon. It was a hand-and-a-half sword, not a longsword and fairly long for someone of my size. But I'd grown accustomed to it.
Rolly stood before me. He was a tall and brawny, armoured in thick padding, a chainmail hauberk and padded trousers. There was no way I could fight against him in strength and endurance. It did seem I was more agile than him though, but the size of the Shy Maid made testing that nearly impossible.
Giving a nod, the match started.
I didn't move, my feet rooted in the ground. It felt more naturally to me to let my opponents go first and I fight defensively, only pressing forward when I saw an opportunity to strike. In my various bouts with both Jon Connington and Rolly, that was how I fought best. Not Young Griff though, that kid went all out desiring a quick victory. I was more cautious.
As expected, Rolly lunged forth, grunting as he did so. I met his sword with my shield, a surge of pain rippling through my arm. Suppressing a yelp of pain, I stepped back. Rolly got out of range before I could counterattack. The man had the bloody strength of a blacksmith and if he'd an axe or hammer, I could swear he'll easily break my arm.
Again and again Rolly lunged forward, me not making a move if I could help it. In the heat and weighed down by his armour, it was clear my sparring opponent was tiring much more quickly than myself. His strikes became slower, growing weaker, aiming lower. Grinning internally, I took my chance. The next time he came, I blocked his strike and pushed forward, thrusting my sword toward him. Duck was forced back. When he tried one last desperate move to turn it around, I tied up our swords and snaked a leg around his. Within that moment, I used his size against him and grappled Rolly to the floor. It was easier than I expected, but Rolly hadn't put up much of a struggle.
In the end, I was on top of him and we were both laughing.
"I wasn't expecting that, lad," he chuckled, as I climbed up and gave him a helping hand. "Seven Above." He spat on the ground and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "That was an improvement. What would you have done then?"
Learning against a stone pillar, my response was little more than a tired gasp, "Ask if you submit. If so, I help you up. If not, well, I thrust my blade into your neck."
I saw a flash across his face, when he laughed. "More ruthless than before, aren't you."
"In truth, I don't think I have the freedom to be honourable. As you said, I'm not as good as I was before. I need to be ruthless, don't you think?"
"Sure, sure," Rolly didn't seem to be paying attention as he stretched his back. "Less honourable though. I thought you quite liked honour."
"That must have been the old me. The new me is not one for honour, I confess. I prefer results." While honour is the mark of a great man, so is a tombstone.
"Spoken like Griff."
Yes, Griff. Didn't surprise me when I read his chapter. From the way he spoke, the way he thought, Joncon desired to act like Tywin Lannister, a man renowned for his ruthlessness. "As long as I'm getting better with the sword, eh?"
"Being good with the sword is one thing. But don't be too ruthless, lad. His lord of Lannister is ruthless. Maegor the Cruel was ruthless, as is Lord Stannis. None of them are or were ever loved. You need to be loved if you want the throne. You need the people to rise up for you. You may get some with fear alone, but you'll get more with honey."
I nodded. He knew about Westeros more than me . . . at least when it came to the smallfolk's opinions. He knew what the smallfolk wanted, what they desired in a leader. "If I'm like them, the people won't rise for me . . . will they? They'll have no reason to. If I'm feared, they're more likely to rise against me." Like Machiavelli said, I needed to be ruthless and strong enough for people not to rise against me, but I needed to be loved enough for them to have no reason to. Lord Tywin was feared, yes, but once he had gone everyone turned against his house like a pack of starving wolves. People feared him but they didn't love him. When he was gone, he had grown from the most feared man to the most ridiculed. While Lord Eddard died due to his honour, he was loved enough for people to still fight for him and his house after his death. I need to find a good balance between the two. One couldn't truly succeed with one and not the other.
...
It was a few days later when Illyrio's carriage arrived. At the sight of the column entering Ghoyan Drohe, I was both impressed and embarrassed. I was supposedly meant to be kept hidden but, from the baggage train that was sent, you wouldn't have thought it. It was clear to see that Illyrio Mopatis didn't do things in half measures.
The wheelhouse was massive. I had never seen a wheelhouse before but it was clear that they shouldn't be as massive as the monstrosity before me. It was so large it needed to be pulled by eight equally massive draft horses. The inside was full of plush pillows stuffed with goose down and the purple velvet drapes promised shade in the hot air. The servants, the ones with collars around their necks, told me that should I be wanting for anything, I shall receive. I didn't think I would be wanting anything though. Inside were wines of all colours and flavours, sweets and meats and pastries. I certainly wouldn't be hungry should I decide to ride in the carriage.
I refused, however, much to the surprise of my party and the people sent to retrieve me. The person in charge of the train was shocked and demanded my reasoning, as if my refusal was insulting . . . it probably was.
"Septa Lemore and Haldon can. Rolly and Griff, too, if they wish. I, however, will ride atop a horse," I explained. That was anything thing I needed to learn. Riding was important in this world and being on a boat didn't provide me with much in the way of learning opportunities. Besides, I always wanted to ride a horse.
"Are you sure?" Septa Lemore asked, stopping at the top of the steeps steps leading in. "It's cosy and I'm sure Illyrio has brought the candied gingers you like."
I put on my most charming smile – and Young Griff did have a sweet smile – before saying, "I'm sure they're lovely, lady septa. But I'm just not feeling it right now. I desire to ride a horse. Like many things, I'm afraid it's another thing I need to relearn. The ride to Pentos is long so I'm sure I'll get a bit of practise, and hopefully not embarrass any of you."
The septa laughed. "Then do. I'll just make sure the ginger is left alone. I know how you don't like people touching it." Lemore winked before heading inside.
"Are you sure, lad?" Older Griff asked, taking me to the side. "I mean, you should—"
"There are many things I should do, father," I interrupted. "Riding in a wheelhouse is not one of them. I may be . . . you know, but I will not put myself in luxury. It is my role to lead the people, to be the very best I can be. Riding in a vehicle of decadence won't do that." Then my voice softened. "I need to know how to ride. Will you teach me?"
"That's why I'm here." He smiled ever-so-slightly. Jon Connington wasn't a natural smiler, and it showed. But that made it all the more genuine when he did so.
So we rode towards Pentos and my fork-bearded backer. It was a long journey through the Velvet Hills and the vast plains situated in the region known as the Flatlands which was made up of vast estates similar to those of ancient Rome. Armies of workers tended those fields. Slavery was illegal in Pentos, supposedly, but I wagered they were slaves in all but name. It certainly looked like it with the various riders out on patrol, with bows and spears at the ready should one of these indentured "workers" decide to leave early.
Most of the days were spent learning what boys much younger than me could already do naturally. It was fortunate that I'd been given a splendid black mare with a sweet temper. She was gentle and I wouldn't be wrong to say I instantly felt attached to the magnificent creature. Under Jon's tutorage I gained the skill of horse-riding. Nothing complicated, of course. I could sit in the saddle and ride without falling over. On the third day I concluded it was thanks to the horse rather than myself. It was like the mare knew exactly what I wanted it to do and responded naturally to the most gentle of instructions. I couldn't be more thankful.
I didn't spend all days outside, however. I was ordered inside the carriage for the lessons with Haldon and Septa Lemore. It was comfier than the Shy Maid with the ride being so smooth that it was like floating atop a cloud, if that cloud was stuffed full of various snacks and treats which I found myself snacking on despite my earlier objections. We were also making good pace, which was helped that the Old Valyrian roads were as straight as a lance and wide enough for three carriages to pass abreast. It put the Roman roads to shame, but then again, the Romans didn't have access to magic nor dragons.
Eventually, as the sun was rising from the east, the walls of Pentos came into view.
I was riding atop horse I'd named "Shadowmare" for when it comes to names I'm very creative. The first thing of the first proper Free City I saw was the massive high walls and the square brick towers. Behind I could see buildings and just wondered how big the city inside would be. Haldon claimed that the city held more than a quarter of a million inhabitants, which was absolutely massive in the medieval period.
"So what is Pentos like?" I asked Jon who was riding alongside me. Compared to blistering heat of the Rhoyne, the day was cool and I was dressed in a thin tunic and trousers, not the clothes Illyrio had given me. My financier would have certainly wanted me looking my best and I supposed in a past life, Young Griff would have humoured him. But not me. I was unsure about meeting the Pentoshi Magister. He could be truthful with helping Rhaegar's son and heir, or he have tricked me and everyone else to put his son/kin/puppet on the throne. Either way, I was going to find the truth one way or another.
"It is a Free City," was Old Griff's response, sounding unbelievably bitter. He, too, was eager to see Illyrio, mostly because I planted the seeds of doubt of my own legitimacy in his mind. Not the best thing for the long run, but I shared the blame when I decided the press the issue. I knew Jon Connington and his attitude, but not the handsome Septa Lemore nor Haldon, or even Duck who I now saw as a close friend. The latter three could all be Illyrio's agents.
I nod, knowing he was unwilling to say any more of the subject. I did research the place from Haldon's books. Pentos had been a colony, one of Old Valyria's daughters. One that tried to return to the old ways of slavery but was denied by Braavos who turned Pentos into little more than a puppet state repeatedly throughout history, it's status depending on the whims of the ruling Sealord. With the current treaty in place, Pentos barely had much in the way of a fleet, only allowed twenty warships, and they couldn't hire sellswords nor make contact with the Free Companies. They were also forbidden much in the way of an army, therefore reliant on the Most Splendid Republic of Braavos for protection which came at a high cost. As a consequence, the Free City of Pentos formed close relations with Dothraki Khals and used them as a private army to attack their enemies. "Trust Pentoshi to find loopholes in any agreement," was a common saying around Essos.
Entering Pentos had been an experience all by itself. Going through the Sunrise gate, the streets were straight and lined with trees and beautiful buildings that looked like I stepped back in antiquity. The apartments were three to four stories high, made of bricks and with slanted ceramic roofs. Like many Free Cities, they held numerous different beliefs within the walls. One such was the Red God who currently had a congregation of their faithful parading through the streets, all in red cloaks and hoods. Each one carried a torch in hand, being led by one who chanted into the sky. That wasn't to mention the various other places of worship we came across.
I struggled to keep sense of all the sights. I was used to chaos. I was born in a capital city, so that was natural, but it was all strange and foreign nonetheless. Pentos was very metropolitan, with hundreds of peoples of different races and creeds and cultures. Some were as pale as milk, with furs of tigers and dresses of samite and linen and wool, some were tall and dark, others pale and others olive. While it was a Pentoshi custom for many to dye their hair like myself, theirs were much more outlandish. I saw people whose hair was oiled and formed into strange shapes, anything from unicorns to stuff that wouldn't look out of place in a contemporary art gallery. I saw tumblers and musicians and street actors riling up the crowds. There was even a magician who kept the mass in suspense while pickpockets took home easy coin. The bazaars – Septa Lemore claimed – had everything that existed in the world that could be sold. A part of me wanted to see what the world here had to offer.
It all made me feel like a tourist.
Eventually we reached Illyrio Mopatis' estate. It was a mighty thing. High brick walls lined with long spears like those of a phalanx surrounded the perimeter. Clearly no one, not even the greatest of fools, would dare try to climb over it. The wheelhouse stopped outside the iron gates of the manse, guarded by what could only be Unsullied. They looked different from what appeared in the show. They were shirtless, with metal caps with a long iron spike that I'm sure would kill someone should they decide to head-butt some poor sod. They held round shields and spears like those of a hoplite, but they also looked pudgy and fat. Not the kind of people you would expect for the best fighting force in Essos. But I supposed it came down to them being household guards with food being the only vice left to them so they indulged upon it.
Not to mention they lack the need to be on edge all the time. I wasn't a fan of Unsullied to be honest. Oh, they may be the most disciplined and obedient soldiers, but they weren't practical. The expense to make and train them was just too expensive to waste them in fighting. Their phalanx formation would also make them unwieldly and tactically inflexible. Just get me some peltasts and I can match Daenerys' Unsullied in battle.
After Jon Connington and Haldon spoke a few words, we were ushered inside the grounds. There were no other words to describe it other than beautiful. The gardens were large and open with lemon trees and bright flowers, painted statues of beautiful youths and marvellous creatures. There were marble bathing pools with fountains and ponds home to brightly coloured fish. The building itself, Illyrio's residence, was gorgeous. I was enough to take my breath away and clearly not the home of a humble man.
It wasn't my financier who welcomed us, instead a willowy girl with pale-golden hair and blue eyes. She smiled at me like she knew me before. I returned the smile, and perhaps with a bit of a blush. She was certainly striking to behold and couldn't have looked much older than eighteen. I did try to ignore her thin lilac dress which left little to the imagination. While I was polite, Rolly didn't avert his eyes at all.
"Please, my lords, Magister Illyrio is very much expecting you, though this one should inform you that master Illyrio is currently in talks with his fellow magisters. My fellow servants will take your belongings. Master Griff, please would you follow me?" She was looking at me, eyes down and submissive.
After a quick glance at Old Griff, I accepted and awkwardly climbed off Shadowmare, before handing the reins with a stocky man whose eyes looked defeated. A slave. Illyrio did keep slaves. He was a merchant prince who dealt with many things: dragon bones, spices, silks and flesh. The girl – who called herself Serala – escorted me through the spacious halls. If I was impressed on the outside, it couldn't compare to the interior. There were inner courtyards and gardens, with marble bathing pools, fountains and mazes, columns green with ivy and vivid mosaics.
She opened the door to my apartments. I didn't have a single room, but a collection of them with servants to tend to my every need. In my private chambers were pale-brown marble floors, thick carpets from Myr that were among the softest things I've felt since entering Planetos, draws and chests, a balcony overlooking the bay and walls draped with colourful silk hangings that shimmered with every breath of air from outside. There were frescos and mosaic tiles of animals and attractive men and women coupling that put the Pompeii brothel scenes to shame.
"You are too generous," I said, turning to the pretty blonde. "Thank you." Remembering my courtesies from Lemore, I bowed my head politely.
She curtsied. "This one just showed you the way," she said with a melodious accent. "This is thanks to the generosity of Magister Illyrio Mopatis of Pentos."
"Then I should thank him, most certainly. But thank you as well for showing me all this." I smiled warmly. "If you may, sometime later, please show me around the grounds. While I'm sure I've been here before, the mind gets cloudy and I may need some help to jog my memory."
"O-of course, Aegon—Young Griff, I mean . . . apologise. I'll be most honoured to, Your Grace."
"You make me sound like a crowd." Her face went red with embarrassment. At first opportunity, she took her leave and closed the door behind her. Apparently, I may have a past history with her. I made a face, knowing it couldn't be anything sexual . . . God I hoped not. George did write some disgusting things with underage children after all. I looked around the room, amazed at the sight. Compared to the Shy Maid, the shack, or the small room I had in London, this room looked fit for a king. A king I could possibly be. Atop the dais was a large bed with translucent curtains and a goose-down mattress so soft I sank right into it. The sheets were silk, and layered atop them was a carpet of pillows.
There, staring up at the ceiling, I pondered Illyrio's motives.
I must had been thinking for a while for when Septa Lemore entered, the candles had dimmed. "Like your room?" she asked, smiling that brought forth the fairness of her features. She looked at me inquisitively and tilted her head. "Deep in thought are you, Aegon?"
"I sure am." I said, moving to the side and letting her take a seat beside me. Doing so made me feel like a child. Even more so when she pressed a hand into my wavy blue hair, stroking it lovingly. I didn't push her hand away, I just let her do it. "I'm just wondering, why would Illyrio do this for us . . . for me?"
"He has his reasons," she said softly.
"And what may they be?"
The lady Septa turned away, grimacing. Like Griff, she didn't seem a fan of Illyrio Mopatis all that much. Haldon and Rolly didn't seem to really care. "He's a Pentoshi merchant prince. I think enough is said."
"Money and influence," I muttered, looking down at my fidgeting legs. But why would he want money when he was richer than most of Westeros? What influence couldn't he get with coin? He had enough of it and flaunted it out repeatedly throughout the novels. He brought the Golden Company and bribed a Triach of Volantis for crying out loud. The man wasn't lacking for coin. "I need to meet with him and see for myself."
...
The sky had darkened when I stood in the vast garden, staring up at the painted statue, when Magister Illyrio returned to his manse.
It was a beautiful sculpture like those of ancient Greece and Rome. It was painted, like they originally were, and masterfully crafted to reflect the ideal male form. The figure stood in the middle of a shallow pool surrounded by six cherry trees forming a circle. The figure itself was of a boy, looking like an older version of myself, poised to duel with a bravo's blade in hand. It was real steel and shone in the sun. The boy was lithe and graceful, sixteen, with straight blond hair that brushed the marble shoulders.
Illyrio when he was younger. It had to be. There was no other reason I could think of. Should I have been older, it could have been my body it was based on. Though my hair had a curl to it and my body was less built. If this was a projection of my future looks, it was making me vainer just looking at it.
"Beautiful work, isn't it," came a voice behind me. I turned around to see who could only be my benefactor. "Masterful work. Created by the reputed Pytho Malanon when I was just older than yourself. Yes, unlike now, I was a handsome young man, a reputed bravo and swordsman."
I looked over at Illyrio. He was worse when I could have ever expected. It was one thing to be told by words from a page, but another thing to experience it first-hand. He was horribly obese, with fat ruddy cheeks, narrow pig eyes, a fat white belly covered with coarse yellow hair and heavy breasts that put many women to shame. His teeth were crooked and yellow and there was an oiled forked beard that shone like gold. If one wasn't aware of Illyrio's past life, they would never assume the statue was him. "I heard you were poor, my lord, when this was taken."
"Aye, I was. Master Pytho paid me to model for him. A young warrior with that form caught his attention. He's a lover of beauty, that man. Boys and girls, but young men especially. When I got my fortune, I tracked him down and brought this off of him. Yes, a bit of myself. Brings back memories every time I see it."
Does looking at me bring back memories? I did see some similarities in the face. Mostly the jawline, the high-cheekbones and the straight nose. Granted, the marble looked more idealised so I wasn't certain. My lips were fuller than the statue who had fairly thin lips in a way Magister Illyrio didn't have, which kind of proved my point. I turned to Illyrio staring proudly at the marble figure, like he was looking back at the good days of his youth. There was a look in his eyes, those narrow eyes that didn't quite reveal his eye colour. "I assume you've heard what happened to me?"
"I received a raven from Haldon," he said, slumping his thick shoulders and sighed. He didn't look or sound happy. "Nothing to worry about, lad. You're here, you can still learn. You've got years before you're even ready. You'll remember what you lost, and if not, well, you'll learn once more. This here is nothing more than a minor bump. Yes, minor and nothing to worry about. I'm sure the Red God himself watches over you."
Oh, someone's watching me. "You say. It was a startling experience to wake up and be called Young Griff, and then Aegon, the rightful king of the Seven Kingdoms." I chuckled darkly. "A prince without a crown, with only a court made up of a soiled Septa, a maester with half a chain, a blacksmith apprentice to serve as my master-at-arms and an exiled lord." The standard court for an exiled prince. A five person band for a fantasy hero. I supposed that was what Aegon was, truly. A fantasy written by George and inserted into the story. A deconstruction in the making.
"What you need to learn and take the throne."
"Perhaps. Though I do wonder one thing. Am I really him?"
That seemed to startle the magister. Illyrio turned to me from the statue. His mouth slacked. He did smell foul underneath all the heavy perfume he wore. In a few ways that could be symbolic. He puts on the appearance of a jovial man who's always willing to help, when in fact he's a Machiavellian schemer. An evil Wyman Manderly, you could say.
"What did you say?"
I turned to him, straightening my twelve year old body to as high as it could go, trying my best to look strong. But despite myself, the man did have a strong gaze that made me feel powerless. "Am I really him? Aegon Targaryen, son of Elia Martell and Prince Rhaegar. Tell me, magister. Tell me whether I'm truly who everyone says I am." I wondered if Young Griff ever doubted his own legitimacy. The kid most likely had been told his whole life. Why would he have reason to object?
"You are Aegon—"
"Aegon who? Aegon Targaryen, Blackfyre, Mopatis? Or am I just a boy with silver-hair and purple eyes? Jon Connington told me. Told me that he got me from you and Varys the Spymaster. That I was five when I was taken away by him, to be taught by him, to learn from him."
"That is correct. You were five when he took you."
"Answer the question. I'm not sure about the boy that left with him, but I'm not that boy. I may have forgotten, but my eyes have opened and they're clearer than before. So tell me, Illyrio Mopatis. Tell me who I really am."
The magister looked at me for a moment, then laughed a loud laugh. His belly and breasts rolled and he threw his head back. "Oh, you dragons. You are always so dramatic. Dragon's blood, might as well call it performer's blood." He laughed some more and slapped me hard enough on the shoulder to see me reeling. "Aegon, you are no imposter nor commoner. You are a dragon. A true dragon."
"No. Don't divert this." This was exactly what he was doing. "A dragon you say. What kind though? A mummer's dragon or a true dragon?" Black dragon or a red dragon. A dragon is still dragon. It didn't matter to me whether I was a Blackfyre of a Targaryen, though it would certainly matter to Jon and others. "Answer me now."
Then Illyrio's face tightened in anger. "You are a child. You won't understand, nor am I obligated to tell you."
"So I'm false, aren't I. Otherwise you'll tell me." I chuckled and shook my head. Expected as much. "So tell me now, magister, or Lord Connington will ask you himself. He wouldn't like being deceived. Tell me and I can convince him not to be violent."
It was more a bluff. I would expect Jon Connington to get enraged. It would certainly happen after losing his honour after being labelled a thief and being manipulated with raising a child who was claimed as his best friend's son, who may instead be the Targaryen's greatest enemy. If he didn't kill Illyrio on the spot, I'd be surprised. A part of me even wanted to see if it would happen.
The man stared at me for a moment where I knew he saw the anger. Illyrio glanced around the garden where only his Unsullied and servants were on duty and working, then he slumped his broad shoulders. "You ruin all this planning, boy. You ruin it all. You are a Blackfyre on your mother's side. Serra Blackfyre, the daughter of Daemon Blackfyre."
I looked at him dead in the eyes. It was clear he was expecting me to make a scene. He expected I'd shout platitudes like "How could you betray me?" If anything, I expected him to say, "Aegon, I am your father."
Between all the reactions I could have made, I just let out a matter-of-factly, "Oh." I really didn't feel anything from the revelation. Absolutely nothing. It surprised me actually.
"Just oh?"
I shrugged.
Illyrio glanced around, looked surprised by my lack of reaction. "I think you'll want to know more. Come, follow me to my apartments."
I followed, keeping a fair distance behind to a massive bedchamber with a bed that looked the size of an entire room. Illyrio went to a heavy oak desk and pulled out a locket on a silver chain. "There she is, your mother."
I took the locket and opened it up. Inside was a beautiful woman with wavy pale-golden hair streaked with silver. Her eyes looked blue, but from my own they must have looked closer to purple when she was alive. "So it isn't Elia Martell, princess of Dorne. My mother's a Blackfyre then." I didn't know how to feel about that. I wasn't emotionally connected to either of my parents who weren't really my parents. I'd even prepped myself beforehand so I wouldn't cause a reaction and lose control.
"Aye. A beautiful creature," he took the locket from my hand almost tenderly and stared at the portrait. "I found her in a Lysene pillow house where I brought her home. I'm going to be honest with you, son. There was a lot of prestige in having the last Blackfyre."
"Last one? What happened to the others? Why was she in a pillow house?" I had always been curious about that. Though the way he was saying it made it less of a story of love, as he claimed in the books, and more of a story of procession.
"The War of the Ninepenny kings," Illyrio said, staring. "Tyrosh had always been the Blackfyre city, where the black dragons held their court and families. Daemon was supported there, not Maelys, so when the Monstrous killed his kinsman, Tyrosh closed their support and doors to him. In retribution, Maelys sacked it. Since Daemon the Black Dragon died in Westeros, Blackfyre support in the city wavered slowly, more so when Prince Valarr Targaryen married into a rival Tyroshi family. Tyrosh was sacked by Maelys and the Golden Company before Alequo Adarys was put in charge as a tyrant. At that point, any remaining support for the Blackfyres vanished. Serra was a child and sold into slavery. That was her story."
I took a deep breath and bit my lip, trying to think of a response. It was a fun little history lesson that would explain the fall of the Blackfyre Pretenders. "So you brought her and decided to sleep with her. What, as a prize?" My voice steadily grew despite myself.
"Initially," he allowed, leaning against the large desk. His cheeks were red. "I grew to love her, then we married. It closed the doors to the cousin of my first wife, the Prince of Pentos. I lost influence, but I didn't care. She was more than enough," he finished, stroking the locket down the side almost tenderly.
I looked down and when my 'father' tried to put a large hand on me, I backed away. "Then what happened? Why isn't she here now?" I knew the answer, but Illyrio wouldn't know I know. "What happened to my mother?"
"Dead. A Braavosi trading galley called the Treasure stopped in Pentos and brought with it the Grey Plague. The garrison killed the crew and burned the boat and all her contents. But that only allowed the rats to come ashore and they brought the plague with them. Two thousand died, my Serra among them. I still have her hands with me. I say you won't want to see them."
He was truthful. But why would you keep her hands? I didn't feel sad, but I felt an ache in my belly. Was it wrong that I regretted searching for answers? That I'll rather live in ignorance? "So I'm a Blackfyre or half of one. So what now?"
"I expected you to know, Aegon. You probed me for answers and I gave you them."
"I did," I admit, averting his gaze. What do I do now? Do I confess to Jon Connington or do I continue the plan and deceive him? Sometimes a sweet lie is better than a harsh truth. But what if he found out later that I knew all along? Could I lie to a man who lost everything and lived for what was a lie? "It seemed so good to say it then, but now all I feel is confusion." I'm sure that if I didn't know all I did, it would have come as a shock. Would Aegon have cried? Would he have shouted? Would he attack Illyrio or just not care? Would he sulk or go into shock at finding his whole life's a lie? "I was told I was a Targaryen, but find out I'm a Blackfyre."
"The true dragon."
"A false dragon." I looked up at him, my father, the man who planned the destruction of Westeros to place me on the throne. The man who helped Varys destroy the Targaryens, to put another dynasty in charge only to destroy that. I would have come in as a false saviour to stitch the ruins of bleeding Westeros. I would sit as king and the kingdom would bow to a lie. I could almost laugh. It was a brilliant idea, beautiful in a way. The plan would fail though. Daenerys Targaryen would ruin it because she has destiny and dragons on her side. "But what now, father? What will happen to me and the others?"
Illyrio's face tightened, his eyes staring. "The plan can still happen. You continue as Prince Aegon Targaryen. It will happen, where you will sit the throne, disguised as a red dragon. Your mother's dying wish was for you to sit the Iron Throne as is your birthright. The spawn of Daeron are falseborn, born outside the marriage bed by an adulterous queen. You are the rightful ruler of Westeros. Legitimised by King Aegon the Forth himself. Your forefather given the Conqueror's own sword."
"Aegon the Unworthy. It's in his very name. Not a good king by any means. He laid the foundation for war that's lasted multiple generations."
"Tis true, but for good reason. You are the rightful ruler of Westeros."
I laughed darkly. "Tell that to Robert Baratheon. I'm sure if we send an email, he would immediately realise he took the wrong throne and just hand it over to me, perhaps with an apology. 'Sure I may have killed Rhaegar by shattering his ribcage like pottery and destroying the children I called dragonspawn, but seeing as you ask nicely, I'll stand down, even if you are from a family my grandfather died against.' Yea, I'm sure that'll bloody well work."
"What is a—"
"Doesn't matter." Don't mention anything from the modern world. "If I decide to take the throne at all, I'll need to fight for it like my predecessors did." A Blackfyre, with an army standing behind my back. The Golden Company, that'll be my army. One army to beat them all. One army to crush an empire.
"That is why Varys is weakening them from within."
Not like the Spider needs much help with that. Sooner or later the kingdoms would be engulfed in civil war. Joffrey would act like a twat and kill Eddard Stark and send most of the realm into a war. It would be further improved by Littlefinger adding fuel to the flames. With that, I needed to write much of what I knew down before I forget. Important events, times, things to do, as well as possible technology to give me an edge. I was already beginning to forget to my embarrassment. "Varys . . . what has he got to do with all this?"
"He was my friend. We're like brothers," Illyrio began his story.
He didn't leave anything out, saying how they worked together and that Varys was a thief, stealing items before graduating to information which they sold when they couldn't blackmail. That was how they grew rich. Varys wasn't a Blackfyre, nor did he have any Valyrian blood, but he was ideological. A fanatic. He wanted a king raised a certain way and acted with certain interests. A monarch taught with enlightenment values and given absolute authority. Ideas straight from the words of Voltaire. It was a deal between two parties. Serra and Illyrio would have their son sit the Iron Throne as king. Varys would have his dream monarch. Not to mention, Blackfyre supporters like the Golden Company who wanted a Blackfyre on the throne as well as others who had their own vested interests. I was to masquerade myself as a lost Targaryen to earn the support of the Martells and other Targaryen loyalist after the true Aegon had his face smashed. It benefitted multiple parties as long as the lie was considered truth. After all, power resides where people believed it resides. Lies become truth and truth becomes a lie. History written by the winners.
At the end, sitting on Illyrio's bed right beside him, I was both impressed and flabbergasted. It had been a long story. All this organisation and planning, and I destroyed it. There was humour in that from an outsider's point of view. A boy of barely twelve years old destroying the master plan of two of the greatest masterminds of the story. It's very fate balancing on my fingertips. If I wanted to destroy years of feverish plotting, I could.
But would I?
If there was one thing to say about Illyrio and Varys, it was that they knew how to change their tactics. They were flexible and that was a valuable talent, one I sorely lacked. From what I knew, their initial plan was for Khal Drogo to weaken the realm with his discount Mongol horde at the behest of dear uncle Viserys. They would somehow manage to cross the Narrow Sea amidst civil war and fuck everything up. After all hope is lost, I would come in swinging my sword and awe everyone with my sheer awesomeness.
But that didn't go to plan. Drogo died and Daenerys got dragons. Then the plan was that I go and marry her, unite our forces to take on Westeros with the dream team of made up of the Golden Company, Unsullied and dragons. The very same tactic I used in the game of thrones mod for Crusader Kings 2. A plan that worked every time.
Thinking, I fiddled with my hands.
"You need not say anything, you know," Illyrio said softly. "You can still do this. Pretend nothing ever was said between us here. Continue as Aegon Targaryen, son of Elia Martell and Rhaegar. It'll be easy and you'll be king, your children princes and princesses."
"But it has. I was lied to all my life. You lied to others. You wanted to lead others to die for a lie. I won't do that. That's not me." The suggestion was tempting though. I was not a person who lacked ambition.
"Then what will you do?"
I thought on that for a moment. There were many things I could do. I was the last Blackfyre, a true Blackfyre, for my parents had a matrilineal marriage for her name had more political weight behind it, as smeared as it was. Black or red, a dragon is still a dragon.
How could I break it to Jon Connington and the others?
I swallowed and looked at the Pentoshi cheesemonger. I was at the crossroads that would dictate my future. Power resides where people think it resides. If I continue the act – this time with knowledge – I would have Dorne and others. But it would be a lie to benefit an imposter. If the Dornish discovered the ruse, they would come after me with everything they had. In no way would they allow an imposter to piss on Elia and her child's name and memory. There was no way I was in control. People would press me to sit the Iron Throne regardless of what I try to do.
"I will do what I need to do, but not on the backs of two dead children. If I'm going to take the throne, I'll do so as a Blackfyre."
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